


A Painting Tells a Thousand Tales

by PadawanTimeLord



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Artist!Reader, Bucky/Reader - Freeform, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Oral Sex, Reader Insert, Some angst, The reader has a dirty mouth, penetration sex, really slow burn I'm super sorry about that, watch out for the swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2018-11-16 13:35:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11254020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PadawanTimeLord/pseuds/PadawanTimeLord
Summary: Captain America is forcefully signed up to speak at the opening for an art gallery. Bucky, still a little bedraggled from his past, tags along to see how the art scene has changed since WWII.You are an artist who shows the ugliness of humanity. Your pieces are dark and disturbing and you like it that way. Towards the end, you notice a brown haired man who hasn't moved from your section of the gallery. He seems drawn to your paintings, empathizing with your subjects. Who could he be?





	1. Chapter 1

You curse as the putty refuses to unstick from your fingers. As you finally manage to smear the devil stuff onto a piece of cardboard, you could _feel_ several layers of skin peel off along with it. You were well past the point of caring, as you were seriously considering amputating those fingers after ten minutes of picking. Victoriously, you stick the small figure cutout of Captain America onto the welcome sign.

"Ah, good, you're done," a caramel skinned girl sidles up next to you, looking over your accomplishment, "But the coloring could be better."

"Cosema, I've been working on this since three in the morning. Get out of my face," you respond with a disgruntled huff.

Cosema a nudges you playfully, "It really looks great. Thanks for stepping in for Sammi."

"Sammi can screw herself right in the ass," You grumble, "She had two weeks to figure something out. You can't last minute cancel with nothing done." You begin to set your brushes aside to be washed before putting them away, then move onto your tubs of acrylic paint. Your joints crack in a thousand places and you have to shake your foot awake.

"True. But hey, look on the bright side!" Cosema cheerfully says as she helps you wash out your jars of paint water, "One less person means more time for us to be with Captain America." She sighs dreamily, "Have you seen his butt in that spandex?"

You roll your eyes. Cosema has a fantasy revolving around seducing and then marrying the Star Spangled American Icon. It started off as an inside joke at first, but then it grew like a tumor, and now she's obsessed with him. Just reading her self-insert smutty fan fiction can make your average porn star blush.

"Captain American can wait. I need a caffeine boost." You retort as you slide your paint tubs back onto the shelf. You know that Cosema can almost spiritually divine any coffee shop within an eight mile radius. She senses it in her soul, the way animals can sense tsunamis.

"There's a Starbucks around the corner," Cosema states as you throw your paint splattered apron onto the rack. The two of you climb the winding stairs, exiting the art museum's basement and entering the lobby. Cosema's heals click pleasantly against the pale marble floors, the entire lobby decorated in a flawless white. Even the abstract art behind the receptionist desk is white, more of a textured wall then actual art. The security guards smile at you both as you leave the building through the large revolving doors, something that the child in you always enjoys.

Within a few moments Cosema had led you to your special haven. You resist the urge to fight the people in line so you could go first, but just barely. Once it's your turn, you and Cosema order and then head to the Student Center inside the Art Museum. "T minus two hours and counting," Cosema says after checking her phone, "Nervous yet?"

You smile, "Wait for the caffeine to kick in.

:-:

The crowd thickens as all the VIPs came in. The lure of Captain America would have attracted 90 percent of the country, so the management created a strict invitation-only party. It is absolutely fantastic, because that means that representatives from all the best art guilds on the east coast are here. That means that eighty potential bosses are here. That means steady job for a good future.  
  
The entire room goes dead silent as your professor comes in, followed by the good old Captain himself. Everyone stares, yourself included. He is gorgeous, though you don't see where Cosema's obsession comes from. You absently glance over in her direction to see how she's doing. Her eyes are almost boggling out of her skull, looking like she's on the edge of a panic attack.

You almost don't notice the red haired woman in a pantsuit and a well dressed man with a five o'clock shadow walking behind Captain America. Two hang back in the crowd as he steps up onto the stage and approaches the podium. He taps the microphone, and for a moment you think he's... nervous? But then the moment is gone and he looks as confident as ever.

"Uh, hi," Steve Rodgers clears his throat, the everyone crowding around him. As soon as the man opens his mouth, everyone in the room is equal, from the poorest student looking for a big break to the east coast's most elite, "I don't usually speak at events like this- I usually do military graduations. However, Mr. Stark decided it was a time for a change in pace, so here I am," he smiles and you can practically hear Cosema's panties hit the floor.  
  
"Now I'm not exactly an art expert, but from my humble opinion, these paintings and sculptures are good, really good. These kids have serious talent, and there is no reason they shouldn't be walking out of this building without five job offers. I personally can not wait to see where each artist in this room takes their careers, I am absolutely sure that they accomplish amazing things.  
  
"Now I'm not really one for speeches, so... everyone have a fantastic night. Please enjoy yourselves as much as I know so will. Thank you all for coming."

After the applause, you wink at Cosema, then take your place by your setup. Since you are closer to the front, a wave of people immediately flock towards you. You put on your game face and greet them all individually. Some of them take as little time as necessary to look over your things, others take a brief interest and then begin gravitating towards the more cheerful paintings. You tried not to take it personally, your art isn't exactly for the faint of heart. You try to explain your theme as clearly as possible so they understand, and some people do in fact do another take.

"The things most people don't like talking about, death, depression, anxiety, etc. I try to recreate those feelings-" you trail off as people glide away, and flush when you realized that they were talking to your neighbor artist.

You turn around, looking for someone new to seduce with your darkness, but no one has come by... however... someone caught your attention. He had been quietly walking to each of your paintings, taking long periods of time to painstakingly observe them. You recognize him as as one of Steve Rodger's buddies.

"H-hello," You say, the tentatively approaching him. Famous or no, he was one of the few people who actually _looked_ at your paintings, you need his honest opinion. Kicking the butterflies out of your stomach, you add, "Enjoying tonight?"

He turns to look at you, and you drink in his appearance. Just saying his eyes were a blue-gray would be spitting on your career as an artist. They weren't just.... gray. Imagine a glacier slowly melting in the spring, streams of water trickling down a cliff side. The water finally comes to rest in a pool on the edge of a forest, sun beating down, layers of gray and silver pebbles surrounding the shore. His eyes are a paradise, a paradise you are willingly drowning in.

"Your work-" His voice snaps you out of your daydream, "It's very... um, dark." He pauses, looking for words, "What makes you want to paint... things like that?"

You smile faintly, turning to look over the painting he's currently at. _Speak no Evil_ you call it. A girl with dead eyes faces the viewer. Her auburn hair frames her face in dirty strings, her skin smudged with dirt and bruises. Her mouth is sewed shut with seven black stitches, the loose thread leading to a hand holding a needle. The body of the hand and arm is unseen, but it's clear that it belongs to an adult.

"I want to show people the darker side of humanity," you say softly, "I want to make people feel what my subjects are feeling. And maybe change how people view abuse and mental disease." You turn to him, and he's staring right at you with a burning intensity, "People haven't been abused have a hard time understanding why abuse victims don't speak out. I want them to see that the kind of mental hold the abusers have on their victims."

He nods, almost eagerly, in understanding of what you say. You relax considerably. He looks back at the oil painting for a few more minutes with new eyes, and you could see the empathy pouring from him. He breaks away from the painting almost hesitantly, moving on to the next.

" _Seven Devils,_ " He reads the nameplate out loud. The woman in the painting is facing the sky, her face screaming in agony. Seven hands are grabbing her, their nails scratching gashes into her skin, leaving trails of blisters in their wake. You wonder briefly if you went overboard with this one, the details in it are incredibly fine. You think that people probably don't want to see close ups of horrifying injuries. He turns to you and asks, "What does this one mean?"

"It could mean several things. Anxiety. Schizophrenia. Maybe even depression," You open your mouth to explain it in more detail, but he's already nodding in agreement.

"I see it."

The room quiets as more people finish going to the gallery and begin to get hammered down in the reception hall. Even some of the other artists have already begun to trickle out the exit to disappear for the night. You take this time to study him a little harder. His hair is kind of shaggy, but a well-kept kind of shaggy that was beginning to grow on you. And _oh_ to any gods listening, his arms. You are standing at a respectful distance but you can _feel_ those biceps. It takes all of your self control not to let your eyes wander past his waistline.  
  
"Hey!" Cosema surprises you, wrapping her arms around your shoulders, "Friend. Comrade. Pal. Buddy... um, Amigo..."

"What layer of hell do I need to pull you out of?" You interrupt her before she runs out of synonyms.

"Not me," She nervously leans in and says, "Gabriel got a little tipsy and spilled tamper paint all over the basement studio."  
  
"He didn't." You choke, trying not to burst out laughing. You never liked Gabriel much, always so full of himself. "How?"

"Knocked the bottle off the shelves. It burst open everywhere as soon as it hit the floor." She glances over at the mysterious stranger (he is _your_ mysterious stranger, you decide), then adds, "Please help."

"No way," You scoff, "He can take care of it himself."

Cosema closes her eyes and huffs, adjusting her straight ebony ponytail impatiently, "If Professor Crabapple finds out, she'll make him replace all the damaged stuff without giving him a chance to clean it up."

"And?"

"Just come with me, please." It isn't a request, it's a demand.

You point to your mysterious stranger and say, "I'll be down in a sec. Just let me finish up here."

Cosema smiles brightly at you and heads to the basement stairwell, leaving you with him. Before you turn back to him, you notice that the gallery is almost completely empty, with only two other people at the opponent end of the room.

"I'm really sorry, but I need to go." You smile apologetically, "But I really enjoyed our talk. I'm truly happy that you like my art."

His beautiful eyes are sad, you notice just now. Have they always been that way or is this a brand new development? He nods in understanding, his right hand fidgeting nervously. He's acting as though this is the most conversation he's had in awhile. You turn finally to leave when-

"Ca-can I talk to you some more? Later?"

You do a 180 to face him. A grin spreads across your face as you reach into your pocket to retrieve a pen. Slowly, careful not to startled him, you reach for the hand that's not shoved into his pocket and scribble your phone number onto his palm. As an afterthought, you add a little heart at the end.

"What's your name?" You ask. He pauses for a moment.

"James." He finally says, a brief hint of a smile on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I'm super excited to post this!  
> So I'm planning for it to maybe have seven chapters. smut comes later, don't worry, but for now Bucky needs to get to know us better. :)  
> This is actually my first fanfic ever. PLEASE TEAR IT APART. Don't go easy on me, I want to improve.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thank you all for your support, I'm really happy that people like my work! For my first fanfic, this is a super welcome community and I am so proud to be a part of it.

You look up at the sign adorning a small hole-in-the-wall coffee shop. The earbuds you are wearing blare music, drowning the sounds of the busy three o'clock traffic. For the hundredth time, you double check on your phone to make sure this is the correct time and place you and James agreed to meet at. It is.

Taking a deep breath to calm your pounding heart, you hastily yank the earbud cord out of your phone and shove it into your pocket. You've never been this nervous to meet someone before and it's taking a toll on your stomach. You switch your large, square portfolio case between hands so you can yank the cafe open. The dark smell of espresso hits your nose, your artistic eyes first noticing the earth-toned decor with approval. Your gaze flickers from person to person before settling on him, sitting at a table for two in a corner. James.

He's absently poking at a sugar packet with his right hand, not looking for you but instead seemingly focused on the salt shaker. His hair is pulled back into a sexy man-bun, stray strands that can't quite reach the hair tie fall onto the sides of his face. He's wearing a brown leather bomber jacket, plain green shirt under it. Unripped jeans, the dark blue kind, almost a little too tight around the thighs. Gorgeous.

When your eyes meet, the rest of the cafe silences. You smile anxiously, your pulse roaring in your ears. Carefully navigating the maze of tables as to not smack anyone in the head with your portfolio case, you approach him. "Hello," You greet.

He looks at you wide-eyed. For a minute, panic floods your veins and you try to think of anything that could possibly be wrong. Is your outfit ripped? Your makeup smeared? "I didn't think you would come," He finally says. You relax, then frown. You balance your portfolio case against the wall and take your seat in front of him.

"I said I would." You state, arching your eyebrows at him.  
  
His mouth quarks up into a smile, "So you did," he pauses, "What do you want?" He reaches for his wallet.

"No, no, no," You start, "I can pay for myself-"

"I asked you to come here. I believe it's proper etiquette for the person who called the meeting be the one who pays," His lopsided, hesitant smile melts away your arguments, so you tell him what you want. As he gets up, a flash from his left side catches your attention. Is that a... metal hand? You watch him go up to the counter and interact with the barista. Like with you, he's shy but direct. Polite but brief. Your humanities teacher always said you could tell a person by how they treat people in customer service, and nothing he does sets off alarms in your head.

When he gets back with your order, you wonder briefly how you could politely bring up the subject of his metal hand- but quickly decide it's really none of your business. Instead, you bring up the subject you we're here to talk to him about in the first place; art.

"So you wanted to talk about my work more?" You begin, absently touching your portfolio case with your fingertips.

He nods, "I want to know what motivates you to... tackle those subjects you paint. It's kind of unusual. Most people want to ignore the bad things in the world."

"Unusual is how you make your art unforgettable. And making statements unforgettable is how to stir enough people to make change happen. Being unforgettable is also how you make it in the art world."

He takes a swig of his coffee and arches his eyebrows, "So you're partly doing this to be famous?"  
  
You set your cup against the dark wood table, "Yes and no," you explain, "I understand that there are a lot of people who use shock value... for just that, shock value. It has no reason to exist in their creation other than the sake of getting attention. But shock value isn't evil on its own, sometimes getting attention and and scaring people is the only way to make sure they remember what they saw. I _want_ to show people what it's like to feel anxiety hitting your chest. What it feels like when you know that someone is being abused and there's nothing you can do about it. Yes, I would like people to buy my paintings, but I also am fond of not starving to death," you fiddle with your case zipper and reach inside, "I don't just do gory scenes depicting internal struggles, though. For example, I really like space." You add the last part almost shyly, sliding him a watercolor pad with ink drawings and pastels.

He takes it, gently, and begins to flip through it. Page after page explodes with color, depicting things from your window view in spring, nebula clouds bursting with new stars, portraits of people looking carefree and happy, even action sketches of kids playing sports from your street. "Wow," James says once he's at the end, "I would have never guessed that the same person did this."

"Actually, you may have noticed that my pen strokes are similar to each other, though the medium here is different-" you trail off as you decide that you are rambling, "Sorry."  
  
"For what?" He asks, confused.

"You probably don't want a lesson in artist identification." You accept your pad from him and slide it back into your portfolio case.

"I like hearing you talk," He claims earnestly. You study him carefully for any sign of sarcasm, but he seems completely sincere. That was the sweetest thing anyone of the opposite sex has ever said to you, a telling blush heats your cheeks and you take a sip of your drink to hide it.

He breaks the silence, indicating your portfolio case, "You didn't bring your whole gallery just for me, did you?"  
  
You chuckle, tapping the side of your cup in a flurry of nerves, "No, I actually had a job interview today."

James leans forward, interest glimmering in his perfectly colored eyes, "You did? How did it go?"

"Really well, I think," You take another sip of your drink, the delicious flavors hitting your tongue in a full burst, "They are a video game company. My job would be to do concept art and character design drafts for their horror games."  
  
"That sound like something you would enjoy," James responds, licking his perfect lips.

"I really hope I get it," You agree, fiddling with your fingers under the table. The silence stretches between the two of you, making you a little paranoid. To fill the void, you ask him if he's seen any good movies lately, "Those DC people need to get it together," You add lamely, hoping it sparks some conversation, "There aren't any good super hero movies except Wonder Woman."

He seems a little off-put, and you mentally kick yourself. Isn't he one of Captain America's friends? And you asked him about (super hero) movies?

"I don't really follow movies," He says finally.

"Oh. Um, sorry."

"Don't apologize!" He waits a moment, then adds, "I wouldn't mind going to the movies with you... if you want to go. With me, that is," He cleared his throat awkwardly.

You grin, relief flooding through your veins, "Why James, are you asking me out on a date?"

"Yes, I suppose I am," He gives you a wink, and you can see the faint history of a playboy in that move. He seems a little rusty with the flirting, so you make sure to add it to the list of questions you plan on asking him later.

"Well in that case," You slide your empty cup aside, getting out your phone, "You should see where I live so you can pick me up. I'll get an Uber. Unless you have a car."

"I didn't bring it," James looks a little surprised at your invitation, his face twitches once with an unrecognizable emotion. For a second, he seems utterly lost with... what? Eagerness? Fear? Just like that though, the moment is over and he's his usual withdrawn self. He notices you pulling out your portfolio case and trying to delicately avoid hitting the table behind you. He stands and offers you his hand, "Let me get your bag."

"Oh, no, it's kind of heavy, I don't want you to go through the trouble," Your grip tightens around your case as you babble excuses, not wanting him to think that your are a priss who can't take care of herself.  
  
"I'm stronger than I look," He argues, and you have to glance at those biceps again because if he's _stronger_  than he looks than he must be able to benchpress a car and toss it across the street.

"If you insist," You relent, feeling coolness brush your fingers. You glance down and notice that his metal hand is already on the handle of your case, fingers brushing against yours. You look back to his perfectly shaded eyes and slowly retract your hand from the case. After just a brief moment of awkwardness you take a step away from him and leave the cafe. The fresh air hits you as a gentle breeze weaves its way through your hair. You steer him to the curb where an Uber car is waiting for you.  
  
The two of your stack into the back, James' hulking form edging into the middle seat. During the drive, you take time to study his profile. Symmetrical face. Square jaw. Beautiful mouth. Your brain is still trying to process a coherent description that you could give your friends that didn't just stop at 'handsome'. He catches you staring and you panic, blurting your go-to excuse for acting like a creeper, "I'm an artist," Of course he knows that, idiot, "I'm trying to draw you. In my mind."

He chuckles though, not in a defensive and nervous way but a legitimately amused way. You look out the window in embarrassment. At least you haven't scared him off yet. You are so focused on trying not to look at him that you almost don't notice as the driver pulls up to the apartment building. You briefly thank the driver as the car rolls to a stop, hop out and glance behind you to be sure that James is still with you. You both approach the rusting old iron gate, ignoring the keypad and opening it with ease. "The gate's lock has been broken for three years," You explain briefly, holding it open for him.  
  
"No one's bothered to fix it?" James asks, clearly concerned.

"I've bugged the landlord a few times, but he always says 'oh I'll be right on it' and then never does anything. I'd hire someone fix it if I had the money laying around," You sigh, "But I don't." You unlock the building's door, which thankfully is still functional. The stale air produced by cheap air conditioners hits your nose, faint out in the hall but still there. You make a sharp left and open the stairwell door for James, "My room's on the third floor."

As soon as you make it to your floor, you see one of your neighbors (unfortunately). Your face contorts to disgust before you throw on a smugly sweet facade. "Hello, Chad," You greet, your voice oozing with an ominous threat, "How's your face?"

A guy with a backwards baseball cap looks down and scurries past you. The left side of his face is mottled pink and yellow, his nose buried under a gauzy bandage. You can sense James trying to process what the hell happened to him (you happened), but you say "Here we are," before he has a moment to ask. You unlock your apartment and take your portfolio case back. "You want to come in?" You invite, "My roommate's not here." You don't mention that your roommate's sister just had a baby, meaning that you weren't just alone for today but also for the rest of the week. He hasn't passed the 'I'm not a serial killer' test yet.  
  
He must see your hesitation because he shakes his head and takes a few steps back. "I shouldn't. I really need to get back," He looks a little sad, "I really enjoyed spending time with you today. I look forward to our... date."

"So do I," You agree, giving him a playful punch in the arm. As a sign that you like him, obviously. Not because you wanted a small taste of those biceps. That would be weird. "So I'll be seeing you later?"

He smiles, "Absolutely."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you everyone! I was so excited about the chapter that I'm releasing it a day early. I'm going to try to keep the submissions on a weekly schedule, and also work on getting the chapters a higher word count. Thank you all for you patience!


	3. Bucky's POV

Bucky stares at himself in the mirror. Steam enters his lungs as he breaths, fogging the mirror and obscuring his reflection. Good. He hates having to look at his hideous arm. The pinkish scar tissue where flesh and metal meet is a constant reminder of what he's done.  
  
He wraps a towels around his waist, taking another deep breath before exiting his bathroom. His room's curtains are drawn back, letting in an abundance of early morning sunlight. Momentarily blinded from the sudden brightness, he randomly feels around for his water bottle for a quick drink. The crystal water hits his stomach, easing the nervous churns in his stomach. He is about to take a girl out.  
  
He hasn't romantically seen anyone since he sold his soul and body to SHIELD. He's not even sure if this relationship is a good idea. Attachments are weaknesses. Weaknesses can be easily exploited. But dammit, he hasn't wanted someone like this since before becoming a soldier. Can't he have a bit of happiness? Can't he have her? He throws on some clothes, not particular about the kind, then tries to quietly go get some lunch. His attempts, of course, are foiled by one (1) Russian ex-assassin and one (1) Steve Rogers.

"Hello, Bucky." Steve begins, in a gentle I'm-trying-not-to-pry-but-I-want-details voice, "I heard about your... date."

Bucky activated his 'ignore it and hopefully it will leave him alone' tactic. He turns from them and begins to make some coffee, the familiar motions of doing so helping to calm his nerves. The Kurig steams as it heats the water, a relaxing sound to him. He turns to check if they're still there.

They are.

"We're not going to tell you not to go," Steve continues as though the two minute intermission didn't happen, "Natasha just wanted to know if you wanted some pointers," Bucky blinks in surprise. That wasn't what he had been expecting.  
  
"Maybe you can help by not having a small army follow me," He responds sullenly.

Steve looks a little guilty at that, "Sorry, Buck, but SHIELD is still a little nervous about you running around."

"Five agents in that cafe with us. One tailing our car as we left. She didn't notice, but maybe next time she will." Bucky presses the 'brew' button and watches listlessly as the dark liquid began to trickle down into his mug.

Natasha sighs. "I'll talk to the head of security about giving you some space," She promises, having the gall to look like she feels bad about it. Bucky wouldn't put it past her to be the one who made sure he was being watched. She interrupts his train of thought, "I hope you're not going in that," She gestures to his outfit.

"What's wrong with it?" Bucky asks defensively.

"Well, what kind of girl is she?" Natasha pipes her eyes brows up.

"Bucky doesn't need to change for anyone," Steve interrupts.

"He's not changing his whole personality, just putting some effort into his clothes. For the date." She rolls her eyes and turns back to Bucky, "I assume you two have been texting?" She holds out her hand expectingly, "-You can tell a lot about a person by the way they text."

Bucky reluctantly hands her his phone and she goes through his messages with you, lips pursed in thought. "Hmmm."

"What?"

"Steve, let him borrow your motorcycle. Come on, James." Natasha instructs, gesturing for Bucky to follow her back towards his bedroom. He humors her. It's probably an apology her form of apology for letting him be followed previously. "So here," Natasha holds Bucky's phone in front of his face, "She asked you what your favorite bands is," She scrolls down, "And then tells you hers." She tosses the phone back at him.

Bucky removes one of his metal fingers as one of his nervous ticks, then put it back on. "And?"

"You can tell a lot about a person by their taste in music," Natasha explains, her voice muffling as she retreats into his closet, "And though she likes a lot of a variety, you can still pinpoint a signature style."

Suddenly, a shirt flies through the air and smacks him right in the face, followed by a belt which he gracefully dodges, then jeans. "This is basically what I'm wearing now," Bucky complains, frowning at the material.

"Uh, look again?" Natasha returns with combat boots, "The jeans you are wearing now are lighter jeans, ones that are fraying. The shirt you are wearing will not go well with the black leather jacket you'll need for the motorcycle drive, and you are not wearing those brown shoes with everything else." She frowns, "No more complaints. You'll thank me later."

"Yes ma'am." Bucky can barely keep the sarcasm from his voice, "Now are you going to stay in here while I change or...?"

As Natasha leaves, Bucky takes a huge breath of relief. He goes ahead and changes. Natasha's entire career involves manipulating people into liking her, so Bucky trusts her judgement, even if it might be unnecessary.

Bucky goes back out to the kitchen to retrieve his coffee and finds Steve waiting for him at the table. Steve clears his throat, "So, uh, I'm sure you're aware that things have changed since the 40s."  
  
"I don't like where this is going," Bucky does not feel like dealing with this right now.

"It's just that, um, girls are a little more open about their sexuality... and that's okay! There's nothing wrong with that, it's just she may want to go straight to se-"

Bucky grabs an apple and leaves.

He hopes not to run into anyone else as he makes his way to the garage, but fate is a ironic bitch. There is Sam, leaning against the wall as though he caught a child stealing from the cookie jar, "Where do you think you're going?" Sam asks casually. Bucky tries going around him, but Sam bounces off the wall and blocks the the exit. Figuring the only other way out besides violence is to play Sam's little game, Bucky relents.

"Out, on a... meeting."

"A meeting with a special someone?" Sam twists a piece of paper in his hands, raising his eyebrows at Bucky, "And how long will you be gone?"

"Don't start," Bucky grumbles, done being treated like a teenager trying to sneak out.

"It's just," Sam holds out the paper, "An artist would probably love to go to an Indie Market."

"Indie Market?" Bucky frowns, trying to remember or at least logically think of what it could be.

"It's basically if a farmer's market and an indie festival had a baby. There's a brand new one open this week. Today, actually," Sam says, offering the paper to Bucky more aggressively, "And since it's on the other side of the city, I don't think she's heard of it."

"Um.... thanks." Bucky accepts the flyer a little suspiciously. On it, a black and white stock photos show people having a good time, and on the bottom, an address.

"I'm only doing this so you'll be out of my hair for a few extra hours," Sam snaps defensively, stepping aside so Bucky can pass.

"Of course." Bucky agrees as he opens the garage door, a blast of a vastly different temperature blowing into his face. He steps through the threshold, only for a large black object to come sailing at him from across the room. He catches it with his superior reflexes in surprise.

"Bring that for her," Natasha shouts, wheeling an old fashioned bike from the sixties up to him. Bucky checks to see what he had, and sees his reflection in the glossy black helmet. How can people even look at him without disgust? For a second, he wonders if he should even do this. But you're expecting him, and you wouldn't stand him up. So he tears his gaze from the helmet and looks back up to Natasha, with a genuinely happy expression on her face.

"You go have fun, James," She says, tossing him the keys. And just like that, she's back to her smug facade, "And when can we expect to meet this girl?"

Bucky rolls his eyes and doesn't bother answering her, taking the motorbike and wheeling it slowly to the exit of the garage.  
He flicks up the kickstand and settles down on the seat, getting the feel of this specific motorcycle. He starts the engine, slowly pulling out of the driveway and rolls down the multi-millionaire neighborhood. Well groomed trees and sculpture shrubbery passes him in a blur as he begins to accelerate down the street. The wind whips at his jacket, almost in a therapeutic way. As soon as he gets on the highway, he lets his mind wander.  
  
He almost got "the talk" from Steve. From Steve Rodgers, of all people. Has he even touched a woman before? Bucky's chuckle falters as, once again, the reminder of what happened hit him like a sucker punch to the groin. His breathing shallows, darkness beginning to pull in from the sides of his vision. He cuts the engine and drifts to the side of the street where he can recover for a moment. His heart rate calms and his eyes clear up after a few minutes of steady breaths. Hesitantly, he starts up the motor again as soon as he feels ready to get return to the road. As he veers back onto his lane, he tries to grasp what his last thought was.

So Steve Rodgers, huh? Giving _him_ , James Buchanan Barnes, the sex talk.

How different things are.

As he continues to drive, James notices how the living values degrade as he gets closer to your home. Gang boys with their pants down around their ankles loiter around an old, rickety rail bridge. His brain goes straight to the gate in front of your apartment. How can a landlord let his tenants live in constant danger of being robbed? The front door is easily pickable. Once they were through the gate, any thief would be home free...  
  
He recognizes your neighborhood as he glides closer to your apartment. When he sees it, he slows to a stop and has to sit there for a moment, taking in the smells and faint sound of children playing in the background. It takes a few minutes for him to gather up the courage to pull out his phone, then a few more to actually text you. Once it's sent, he pulls off his helmet and gets off the bike, going round back to to the 'trunk' (more like a little box precariously glued to the seat) and pulls out your helmet.

After about a minute of waiting, Bucky hears the front door slam, then frantic footsteps as you reach the gate. With the loud shriek of rusty hinges, you burst out, a bit flustered but oh so very beautiful.  
  
"You look great," He says truthfully, enjoying the small blush that spreads on your cheeks from the compliment.

"You look great, too," You respond, looking very sincere. Bucky watches you as you approach, a little tentative about the motorcycle but a look of excitement on your face nonetheless.  
  
He holds up the helmet for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please comment to tell me what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

  _I'm here,_  your phone buzzes as a text notification lights up the screen. Deep breaths, deep breaths, deeps breaths.

_On my way down,_  you lie, then double check your appearance in the mirror to make 1000% sure that you're rocking the semi-casual-could-get-away-in-a-business-formal-setting look, holding up a mental ruler to make sure your eyeliner is even and sharp enough to kill, and anything else that could be wrong is absolutely correct. You grab your purse and rush downstairs, almost forgetting your keys and then almost forgetting to lock your apartment up.

Once you get outside, you spot him instantly. He's leaning against an old fashioned motorcycle, holding two helmets in either arm. His lips curve up in one of his rare grins when he spots you. You take a moment to drink in his appearance. Handsome, rogue-ish hair, glimmering blue eyes, black riding leather, dark dreams. Like he went through your fantasies and dressed accordingly. You approach him, anxiety and thrill thrumming through your body.

"You look great," He appraises, looking only in your eyes. He hands you a smaller helmet with an apology, "I don't know your head size. Sorry if it's uncomfortable."   
  
“I'm sure it's fine,” You run your fingers over the shiny material, placing it over your head and wiggling it down, "Do I put it on like this?"

"Here," his hands covered yours as he helps guide the helmet down on your head. He buckles the strap and pulls the visor down, the world instantly darkening several shades. Once your helmet is secured, he slips his on and helps you onto the motorcycle. You awkwardly climb up onto the back, placing your legs firmly against his. You place your feet on the little side ledges as he instructs.

"Wrap your arms around my waist tightly," He says, starting the engine. A jolt of excitement rips through you as the machine rumbles to life. You do as he says, holding on for dear life. The terrain begins to pass by as the motorcycle begins to accelerate. Thrill fizzles through your nerves as you speed down the street, wind whipping at any bare limbs. You’re almost disappointed when James pulls up to the theater parking lot, coming to a stop in one of the parking spaces.

James sets up the kickstand, getting off first to offer you a helping hand. Laughter bubbles into your throat, the adrenaline spike messing with your reflexes. “That was amazing,” You gulp, your voice muffled by the helmet as you remove it.

“I’m glad you liked it,” James says, taking his helmet off as well and offering you his arm, “Shall we go inside?”

You take his arm, “We shall.” The two of you walk to the front of the theater, only a few people in front of you to get tickets. You do a quick check over the showings, then point to a military action one, “I’ve seen the trailer on Youtube. It seems exciting.”

James’ jaw sets, you could see a glimmer of fear cross his features before it’s cooled slightly by indecision. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” He mumbles, and you’d be an idiot to not see it trigger him. He must not like loud explosions and noises. That’s okay, maybe he’s been through something rough.

  
“Well, I haven’t been to the movies in a while,” You gaze through the other options, “So I haven’t seen any of these. I’d be fine with anything you choose. As long as it’s not Mega Rainbow Pony Saves Planet Cupcakes 3-D X-streme.”

James snorts, and you could see him actually want to debate on it for just seeing what exactly that movie’s about if anything else. Then he looks over the list, seeming a little overwhelmed. You can see his eyes flicker over to the posters lining the building, trying to match a little more information on the names. You let another couple go in front of you while James finally settles on a selection. His face suddenly lights up, “Disney. I know Disney.” He seems almost thrilled.

He wasn’t kidding when he said he doesn't really know movies. “Sure! I hear good things about it. You can’t really go wrong with Disney.” You order the tickets then hurry inside to get snacks. The trailers for your movie started ten minutes ago, so you try to rush through everything to get to the theater. You get a large popcorn to share, a drink, and your second favorite candy (they didn’t have your absolute favorite, but whatever). James looks like he’s having a stroke when the cashier rings you up, and insists on paying for it all himself. You don’t argue. He grabs the popcorn tub and you get the drink and candy, going off the hunt down the ticket number.

_____________________

The lights turn back on. You and James stay seated as the theater began to clear itself out, the afterglow of the story filling your chest with joy.

“That was different.” James states, clearly feeling the effects of the tale as well.

You laugh, “What was your last Disney movie?”

He seems uneasy for a moment, then says, “Snow White.”

“Oh, the first one,” You nod, “I’m not a fan of the storyline. The technicolor though? That was revolutionary. For awhile, Disney had a monopoly on colored movies,” You ramble, gathering up your trash, “So did you see the original or remastered version last?”

“Uh, the original,” His eyes glaze over as he says, “I remember it being one of the most amazing things that I’ve ever seen. Almost better than any of Stark’s inventions at the science expo I went to a few years after…” He looks wistful. You decide he must have had one interesting childhood. Not too many Disney movies and science expos? You want to know more about him. The two of you sit and watch the credits in silence, waiting until the cleaning crew come in before you get up.

The sweet night air hits your nose as you exit the building, the last hints of sun making its descent against the skyscraper ridden horizon. The world is washed in violet and navy, clouds iridescent in the wash of colors flowing in the sky. Both you and James make your way back to the motorcycle. “So… what now?” You ask tentatively.

“Well, I could take you back if you want,” James offers, not looking at you while he slides his helmet back onto his head, “Or I could take you to this Indie thing. I heard of this market-festival thing near here, all independent musicians and vendors.”

You pick up your helmet and look up it, “I was just thinking that I was in the mood for festival food. That is, if you feel like putting up with me for a little while longer.”

“Oh, baby, soon you’ll be the one pushing me away,” Though his voice is light and teasing, there’s an undertone of darkness in his eyes. He flips the visor down on his helmet, and checks over you to make sure your helmet is properly fastened. You settle yourself behind him as you did before, wrapping your arms around his waist, feeling his thick muscles through his unzipped jacket.

As the motorcycle rumbled pleasantly down the street, you make a mental note to maybe get one of your own. The price of a stripped down model should theoretically be cheaper than owning an actual car. As you debate over this, a few stars that show in the polluted city sky began to ornate the blackening sky. Finally, you arrive at a parking lot, just a few blocks away from the bustling festival. The two of you get off and put your helmets onto the seat, snapping the lock into place.

The smell of every kind of food hits your stomach, and your mouth waters as you zero into the source immediately. A long line of food trucks and stalls crowd the sidewalk, everything from Thai to Middle Eastern. Crowds of people meander through the market area, colorful handmade scarves, cute little animals carved into wood, pottery, locally made alcohol, everything someone could make themselves to see is here. Christmas lights and chinese lanterns illuminate the path, casting people and products into a lazy red and orange glow.

“This place is amazing!” You exclaim, joyous laughter electrifying your body, “How have I not heard of it?”

“It’s fairly new. Kind of a late night weekly festival for independent businesses. Music, food, vendors, this place has it all,” James says, clearly reading from a flyer in his hands. He looks back up to you, savoring your reaction, “A friend suggested it to me.”

“Well thank your friend for me.” You grin at him, “Let’s go.” Your fingers brush against his metal hand, a question. He takes your hand with a squeeze, and the two of you are off to explore. You look over the vendors, trying on hats, looking over purses, and even buying a small print with some fictional characters you happen to like from a local artist (you try to do this whenever you have the money). You and James finally figure out which place to eat: everywhere. You get a little something from several food trucks, then take your food to a grassy, fairly empty area to eat still in earshot of the musicians. The two of you sit and spread your findings in between you.

“Tell me about yourself.” You say, taking a french fry and popping it into your mouth.

He freezes like a deer in headlights, then “What do you want to know?”

“Um, what kind of job do you have?” You have standards, and do not want to be the girl who dates a loser. Anyone can have a credit card.

“Government work. It’s kind of… classified,” He says honestly.

“Like with Captain America?” You ask, his head snapping up and looking like you caught him stealing from a bank. “Oh, come on,” You roll your eyes, “I saw you come in with him at the art show. Government work? Friends with Captain America? I’m not the smartest person, but I’m also not an idiot.”

He relaxes and nods, his metal hand twitching, “Yeah, I work with him. We do missions together.”

“If you don’t can’t talk about it, I get it.” You wrack your brain for different questions to ask him, “Um, how about hobbies? Favorite color? Credit history?”

He almost chokes on the eggroll he’s eating.

“I’m not going to date a deadbeat,” You say, now absolutely serious, “I see how it plays out.”

“Carving things like wood or soap. Army green. And excellent credit history,” James says, good naturally, amused but not in the smug fuckboy kind of way, but in a pleasant I-like-you-fire kind of way. “I can even bring my bank documents on our next date.”

“Good idea, you do that.” You polish off the noodles, then say after a few minutes of silent eating, “Do you know how this night should end?”

“How?”

“My friend Cosema says that every date should end with two bottles of wine and three shots of tequila.” You beam at him, the light twinkling in your eyes, “And I saw a stall with those things a few vendors down.”

______

You bolt up the stairs towards your apartment, James easily keeping up as you pull him with you, the bag of booze clinking against his thighs. The two of you stumble through the door, the familiar smell of air fresheners cooling your lungs. You snatch the bag and head to your kitchen, getting out two wine glasses. James pulls a pocketknife from his pocket and pops out the corkscrew function, going to work on one of the bottles. With a nice pop, the cork is gone and he’s pouring the red liquid into a glass.

“How much do you want to start with?” He asks you after filling one of the cups up to the brim.

“I’ll go easy at first,” You decide, thinking that he’ll be a little more forthcoming if he has a good amount of booze in his system. A little unfair, yes, but you wanted to learn more about him and he’s not exactly loose lipped. The two of you settle down on an IKEA couch you and your roommate, Mia, set up with your own blood and sweat and tears. In fact, the two of you had set up the entire living space, from the kitchen tables to the bookshelves in your bedrooms.

“Let’s take turns asking questions. You ask me one, and I answer honestly, then I ask you one, then you answer honestly.” You suggest, taking a swig of wine.

“Oooooooo-kay.” He agrees, albeit a bit hesitantly. He thinks for a moment, then, “Uh, anything you wanted to do before you were an artist?”

“Hm, do jobs that have nothing to do with art only count? Because I actually wanted to be in some fields of science for awhile.” You answer.

“Really? Those things are kind of opposite,” He says, already down to half his glass.

“Yes and no,” You respond, “I mentioned I really like space before? I actually wanted to be an astronomer,” You pause to take a sip of wine, “That was before I realized that math and I weren’t exactly a fantastic combination. But when I started showing that I like art, everyone continuously scared me into not wanting to be an artist. They were always saying that I would be living in the streets or I should marry early so I would have someone to support me.” You swirl your wineglass thoughtfully, “Does that answer your question?”

“Yes, and that was your question.” James teased as you sputtered in protest, “Let’s see here, what changed your mind about pursuing your dreams?

You glare at him, but answer anyway, “I was watching an artist talk about his success at a convention. He said, and here I felt almost like he was talking to only me, ‘If you get good enough at something, someone will pay you to do it’,” You reach over to the coffee table where you stashed the wine bottle and refilled your cup, “So I thought ‘fuck it’ and dropped the idea of being miserable for money and started taking hardcore art classes in college while I was in highschool, youtube tutorials, working at Wendy’s just to pay for tutors. Everyone thought I was crazy. Still do, probably,” You bump your leg against his, “I worked my ass off to get where I am today. I might be getting a high paying job that involves doing the thing I love most. Has it been easy? No. Has it been worth it? Yes.” You smile at him, your brain starting to fuzz up from the alcohol, “My turn, for real this time… What are you most thankful for?”

He lets out a long breath, and closes his eyes for a second. “Wow, um. I’m thankful for a lot of things, actually. It’s really hard to rank them… Let’s see,” He thinks for a moment, “I am most thankful for friends who never gave up on me, even when it would have been the easiest choice.” He drinks, his metal hand gleaming in the low light.

“So, my turn.” He works on opening the new bottle of wine, dumping half its contents into his cup, “What kind of relationship are you looking for?”

You grab the bottle from his hands, chugging several large gulps straight from it before answering, “I’m not a ‘looking for a good time’ kind of girl. I want loyalty. I want you to be my best friend,” You look up at him, the alcohol thoroughly mucking up your brain, “A best friend that I fuck. Do you want to be my best friend that I fuck?”

  
His nostrils flare as his eyes darken. The two of you stare at each other for a moment. “Yes,” He says calmly. Gently, he unzips his jacket and peels it from his arms. Your gaze falls on his metal hand, then trail up his also apparently metal arm. All prosthetic, the metal plates mimic the perfect muscular structure of a male arm. A super buff one. You reach over and touch it, your fingers tracing the grooves. Someone put a lot of thought and care into this, you can tell by the craftsman's work. James tenses at your fingers touch the cool metal, but quickly relaxes and even leans into your body.

“What happened?” You murmur.

“I was on a mission,” His voice is gruff, almost like he can’t believe he’s telling you this, “I can’t remember much from it, but I was on a train… and there was an explosion. I went down. Next time I woke up, my arm was gone.”

“Thank you for telling me.” You smile, and pull your arm away, not wanting to impose on those painful memories. He take your hand though, with his flesh hand.

“No. I want you to trust me. I don’t know… I just… I want to be with you.” His eyes are pleading, but you barely notice. Is the room spinning? You can’t tell. You reach up to touch his face.

“I like you a lot,” You decide out loud, then pitch forward.

Everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading and for your support! Please feel free to leave any suggestions or criticism in the comments.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! This almost wasn't on time. I just started an accelerated English Composition course and I'm in a Choose Your Own Reylo Adventure event, both things really kicked me in the ass. But only two more chapters to go!  
> Any tips or requests for this work or future work, be sure to comment them!

Your brain is not okay. You feel like you swallowed a thousand cotton wads, your mouth dry and parch. You try to open your eyes, but they are stuck together and it will take too much effort to open them. Besides, though your bed is unusually hard, a large, comforting weight encloses you in its embrace. So nice. So warm. Except your toes, which you notice are stiff from the cold. You wiggles them and hold back a giggle. They were wrapped around something awfully muscular. You wiggles them again. The steady breath on your neck hitches.

Wait, you’re with someone? Who? You try to sit up, but someone’s arms are fastened sturdily around you. You pry your eyes open and widely look around. Oh…. The empty wine and half filled tequila bottles explains why you feel dead. You manage to turn your body so you can face… James. Ohhhhh, right. James. You stare at his sleeping face, taking in his angelic features. His chest rises and falls steadily. His hair has pulled loose from its bindings and spills over his face. His gorgeously sculpted biceps wrapped around your waist, a fact you take advantage of by gently freeing your hand and giving his flesh arm a good squeeze. Firm. Nice.

You're so focused on trying to touch that delicious bicep softly enough not to wake him that you barely register that your clothes are still on. His, too. You close your eyes and sigh with relief that things didn’t go too far last night. You don’t exactly understand the concept of ‘boundaries’ when you’re drunk. You hope you didn’t try to take things too far from his comfort zone.

He stirs, a small pout on his lips. You hold your breath and close your eyes so he doesn’t think that you were watching him sleep. You feel him wake, delicately untangling his limbs from yours. You let out a small whimper in protest. He presses his lips against your forehead in a good morning kiss.

“Hello,” He murmurs. You reopen your eyes, innocently batting them as though you just woke up. He doesn’t buy it for a second and you both know it.

Gods, you’re falling for him.

You clear your throat, “So is it safe to assume we didn’t have sex?” Oh, what the hell. You are such an idiot.

“Mm, yes. We just made out for awhile,” James responds, looking a bit worries, “Uh, you wouldn’t let me leave. I hope it’s okay that I spent the night.”

You try to sit up, the dizziness blurring your vision, “I’m sorry. I guess I should have warned you that I’m a clingy drunk. I hope I didn’t keep you from anything.” You need to start eating to kick all the leftover alcohol from your system.

“Oh no, it’s fine,” James amends quickly, “Drunk me rather enjoyed drunk you.”

You give him a quick recount of what you recall. “Do you remember what else we did?” You manage to stand a little wobbly.

“Uh, we made out for awhile. I tried to take my shirt off but you wouldn’t let me,” James smiles, “You started crying about how you didn’t want to take advantage of me, since I was drunk and couldn’t make proper decisions.”

“Oh.” You feel your cheeks burn with embarrassment as you slowly make your way to the kitchen.

“Don’t be that way! I think that you’re really sincere.” James says, “And your sincerity doesn't leave even when you’re drunk.” He pauses, then add, “Your sincerity is one of the reasons I like you.”

Your blush deepens. “Thanks.” You dig through the fridge, decided hangover omelettes will be the best option, a dish where you throw whatever you have into eggs. Simple, quick, takes little brain power. You rummage through the shelves for some of yesterday’s stir fry and set out some eggs. James comes up behind you, “Anything I can help you with?” You half expect him to put his arms around you, but he’s standing at a respectful distance with his hands in his pockets.

“Um, pans are in there,” You gesture to the cabinet with your foot, “Can you get out a skillet? Then put it on the stove.”

Soon the two of you are seated at the table. Wordlessly, you fill your plate and eat, drinking as much water your belly can take. Another addition for breakfast is advil and coffee in an attempt to dull the angry pounding in your head. You hope it’s enough to kick the booze out of your system.

James seems a little distant, so you bite the bullet and ask, “Is there something I did wrong?”

He stares at you in surprise, then wraps the fingers of his flesh hand around yours, “No. This… is all a little new again for me. I haven't’ seen anyone since,” He glances down at his metal hand, “The… incident. My recovery has been a little, er, rough. I just don’t want you dragged into my messy life.”

“James,” You respond, gesturing around you, “I’m here. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, but I’m still here for you. And to be fair, my life is finally looking up from the doldrums. And you know what? It happened as soon as you came, so you're kind of my lucky charm.” You hold his hand tightly, “And to be a little ironic, there are people who will tell you to run from me.”

James laughs, finally looking like he was no longer mapping an escape route in his mind, “Who would say that?”

“Chad. My neighbor, the guy we ran into last time.”

“The guy who looked like he was run over by a car?”

“If the car was me, yes,” You admit, using your other hand to mimic sucker punching someone in the face. “He asked me out aggressively. I refused. Aggressively.”

Bucky looks over your hand, “You must have quite the punch.”

You give him your other hand, the one that you used to punch. It looks fine, your knuckles only tinted with a hint of bruises, “I’m lucky I didn’t use my painting hand because my fingers were swollen and pretty useless for a week afterward.” You grimace, “They make punching in movies so easy, you know? I almost broke my fingers.”

His lips curve upward, carefully looking over the healing of your hand. You let him, adding, “My friend Cosema’s brother is a boxer. He looked over it for me and said it was fine. Anyway, my point is if I don’t want you around, you will know. I’m not exactly one for subtlety.”

James chuckles, relief flowing through his features. His shoulders relax, his eyes look three points away from crying, and his hands enclose your injured one. “Glad to know.” He says, giving your fingers a quick kiss. A warm spark bursts through your hand and up your arm.

The two of you clean up the table. James sticks around to help wash dishes, which is absolutely a good sign of his character. He’s reluctant to leave, but you both have work-related stuff to take care of. You have an essay to submit, a breadth to finish, and a textbook chapter to read. You teachers show no mercy.

You go through the day with a queasy feeling in your stomach from the hangover, but a glowing, lighter than air feeling takes over your other senses. You want to text him, but don't want to seem clingy. So you don’t.

As you flip through the boring chapter on the ‘new age of art’ (bleh), your phone buzzes with a new text. You pounce on it eagerly. It’s not James, though. It’s your roommate, Mia. - _Hey, there’s a problem with the baby. I’m staying for another week._

You feel the joy deflate from your lungs as you text back- _What’s wrong?_

_-The baby’s having trouble breathing. She’s going to be held for observation for a couple of days._

- _How’s her mommy?_ You text back.

- _Worried, but recovering fine. Doctors say the baby should be fine and this is just a precaution. It’s going to drain her insurance, though._

You purse your lips, _-I hope everything turns out okay. Do you need any help?_

 _-Hopefully everything will work out. I’ll let you know. Thanks_.

________

“So anyway, if you want to come over to we can work on our project-”

“Fuck the project!” Cosema practically screams in your ear, you have to pull your phone away from your ear to preserve your hearing, “You’ve been seeing Mr. Dark and Brooding Heart Eyes? You’re going to tell me all the sinful details!”

“Or,” You suggest, “I can give you a less intimate abridged version that respects our privacy.”

“I’ll be over in an hour, don’t move!” Cosema hangs up, and true to her word, bursts into your apartment one hour later without bothering to knock, laptop tucked under her arm and bulging bookbag with more things than necessary hanging on the opposite arm.

“Hello, friend!” She greets, majestically tossing the bag onto your couch. It bounces off, the top bursting open and spilling its contents all over the ground. Pencils, charcoal, and sketchbooks (yes, multiple sketchbooks) scatter over the couch and floor.

“Yes, this is friend.” You roll you eyes at her theatrics as she Launches over the back of the couch, instead of walking around it like a normal human being, and kneels down to gather her things together. You gesture to your side of the living room, your laptop open and textbooks piling up on the table, “Let’s get started, comrade.”

Cosema settles upon her couch, highlighters and textbook out, laptop sitting on her lap. To any other person, she would fool them into thinking she was about to work, but you know from experience that she’s only preparing to grill you for all information that you’re worth. “So,” She starts cheerfully, “Are the two of you using protection?”

“Good gods,” You roll your eyes again, “I’m actually going to stop you right there.”

Cosema has no chill for you, “So what did you watch at the movies? Did he pick a good restaurant after? What’s the size of his dick?”

“Please spare me.” You open your art history textbook.

Cosema reached over with her foot and flips your textbook shut.

You sigh, knowing that she’s going to make sure no work gets done until she gets all the details. So you give in and tell her the story, starting from the coffee shop and ending with this morning.

“So no,” You finish, “I don’t know the size of his dick. Yet.”

But Cosema’s too busy giggling, “Drunk you is a blast. You seriously cried about taking advantage of him?”

You ignore her, instead focusing on your google document.

“At least now we know he’s not just after, you know, your lady parts.” Cosema yawns, catching her breath, “He spent the night without boning you? Hot damn.”

“I’m ignoring you on purpose.” You say.

“Mmhmm,” She hums, opening up her laptop and pretends to start working. Every few moments, though, she glances back to your, eyebrows raised. Finally she asks, “Are you going out again? I’ll gladly take him if you decide to break up.”

“For fuck’s sake,” You snap, “Can we please just get back to our essay?”

“I solemnly swear that if you let me help you plan a date with him, I will stop bugging you.” She raises her left hand, her right hand on her heart.

You move your laptop out of the way, suspiciously eyeing her. “What exactly do you have in mind?”

She grins at you smugly. “Give me your phone.”

“No?” You move to protect it from her, but she already snatched it out from under you and is going through your texts until she find his.

“Something sweet and domestic.” She says, typing away, “Making dinner together. Done and sent.”

“I really hope you put some effort into the grammar,” You reach over and snag your phone back and read over what she had written. No sexual innuendos, no emojis. You breath a sigh of relief, then slip the phone in between the couch cushions you’re sitting on. You open your textbook again, fully exasperated, “Alright, Let’s look through Picasso’s influence on the modern world PLEASE.”

___________________

  
“So… We don’t need a cart?” James, asks, almost disappointed. You met James outside the supermarket closest to your apartment, picking up a basket and hoping that you can get through the shopping process as fast as possible. Supermarkets aren’t exactly your thing. The crowds make you nervous, and you can smell the germs festering around everything.

“Um, I guess we can use one,” You amend, seeing in his eyes just how much he wanted to use a shopping cart. It was kind of cute. You put the basket back, then yank a cart free. He insists immediately on steering it, so you step aside and pull out your list.

“Produce first.” You dictate, pointing to the front aisle. The two of you weave around the fruits and vegetables, James having to stop and ogle at most of the things he sees. He holds up a dragon fruit and looks over at you, so many questions in his eyes. You smile, then wave the list around to remind him to stay on task. He puts the fruit back and follows you like a lost puppy, and you would be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy this.

You swing around to the next aisle, instructing James what to grab if he walks close enough to a listed object. His eyes glaze over as the two of you finally get to the frozen food area. “Look at this!” He says, marveling at the lasagna section. He taps the freezer glass at the vegetarian section, “Only vegetables? Like you have a choice? It’s more expensive than the meat one? What does ‘vegan’ mean?”

You laugh, then realize that he’s not joking and is actual bewildered by the vegetarian selection. “It means no animal products or byproducts. No meat, milk, or butter or things like that.”

“And people actually choose to eat it?” James frowns, then looks back at it.

“Surprisingly, yes. But we’re here for the ice cream, so let’s try to stay on task-” As soon as he sees the ice cream section, you know you’ve lost him. He makes a strangled, oddly sexual sound in the back of his throat and just stares. He turns to you, his eyes wide as if he’s saying ‘can you see this?’, then turns back and looks utterly overwhelmed. So you steer him towards the Ben and Jerry’s section just because they’re your favorite company when you feel like splurging, and his eyes lights up when he sees their Americone Dream, a picture of Steve Colbert shaking Captain America’s hand on the front. He reaches in and grabs it, looking at you for approval. You smile and gesture to the cart. He places it wisely next to the other cold things.

“Alright, let’s go.” You say, taking the cart and steering it towards the self-checkout  
(for minimal human contact). James stares at the machine while you wait for your turn. Once you’re in front of the self-checkout, he passes you things while you scan them and slip them into the bagging area, cursing the stupid thing every time it bugs you about the weight not being correct in the motherfucking bagging area. Once again, James insists on paying. The two of you briefly argue, but the line behind you is long and you know that the people waiting do not want to spend thirty minutes watching the two of you debate. So you give up. He carefully follows the instructions the automated voice gives him for paying, glancing up every now and then towards you.

The two of you grab your bags once the transaction is complete, then head outside to where James’ motorcycle is waiting. It’s actually a different one this time, more modern and sleek. The engine isn’t as loud either, you notice as the two of you roll cheerfully down the street. Your apartment is only a few blocks away, and you are there in no time.

He parks near the gate and the two of you head upstairs to your apartment. You share the situation about your roomate with him as you pull out the pots and pans you’ll be needing for the meal, and he’s sympathetic, but not too terribly much since that means the two of you are alone for the night.

The two of you get to work. He’s surprisingly decent in the kitchen for someone who’s a bit clueless in the grocery shopping area. He’s also a great follower of instructions, so that might be why. Soon, everything's ready. The food is cooked and smells delicious, the table is set and looking romantic. James pours two glasses of wine, and the two of you take your seats.

“This is good. Please send my compliments to the chef.” James teases.

You smile at him, “I’ll be sure to let them know their efforts are well worth it.” You clink your wineglass against his.

Dishes went into the sink once the main course was done, and the ice cream comes out of the freezer. You divide the pint into two bowls, then the two of you settle on the couch, you drape your legs over him in a possessive stance, silently eating. Once you’re done, you poke at your empty bowl absently, unsure of where to go from here.

“I can take your bowl,” You say finally, reaching over to take it from him. Your fingers brush against his. You don't move. Neither does he. He sets the bowl on the coffee table instead.

You lean towards him, twisting your body so you’re on your knees. You can feel his hands gently move to your hips, shifting towards you. His eyes are aching with unseen pain mixed with desire, staring into yours with an intensity you’re ashamed to not match.

You lean in, hesitantly brushing your lips against his. A question. An invitation. He presses your foreheads together, then kisses you full on the mouth. His lips are warm, desire flooding in your veins and pooling into your core. You break for air, guiding his hands to a southern part of your equator. You lean over to him again, an open mouthed kiss this time, his tongue twisting against yours. Suddenly, he’s slipping off the side of the couch, the furniture not wide enough to support his wide frame. You giggle hysterically, then suggest the two of you go to your bedroom, not bothering to turn the lights on. The streetlights shine enough illumination through your window to see what you are doing.

You push him onto your bed, then straddle him, breathing heavily as heat twists your insides, want spilling out of you. Your shirt comes off and you’re back on his mouth, moaning into the kisses as his tongue rubs up against yours. You guide his fingers to your bra, helping him release the snaps, throwing it to some unknown corner of the room. His eyes darken at the site of your freed breasts. You move his hand to them and nod, giving him permission to roam over your skin as he pleases. He runs his fingers over them, gently tweaking as your nipples. You gasp with pleasure, your body hips bucking against his groin. You can feel his hardness developing, a tent in his jeans a hint at his arousal. You bend back down and kiss him, going for the buttons of his shirt. His arms snake back down to your waist, finger naughtily reaching into your pants and snapping at the elastic ofyour underwear.

One by one, the buttons are undone and you finally see where metal meets flesh. The skin around it is pink, as though it was burned into his body. You lean down and kiss the scarred part of his body, and his breath hitches. His fingers weave into your hair, and he stops you from burying yourself into his neck, “Wait, wait,” His voice is broken, like he’s just moments from crying, “How far do you want to go?”

You smile at the sweet concern he shows, “All the way,” You’re suddenly unsure of your aggressive make out session, “That is, if you want to.”

“I do, yes.” He responds, sitting up, your bare chest touching his, “It’s just… I love you, I think,” He gulps, a warm feeling running through your body as he talks, “And I absolutely want to be with you and continue this, but, um, I want you to know more about my work with SHIELD. And about how I got… here. I want you to know everything about me before we go all the way.”

You nod, slowly, and peel your body away from his and settling yourself next to him, still close enough to be touching but no longer distractingly sexual.

“So,” He begins, “I’ve been working with Steve since day one.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Thank you all for you support! I'm so glad this took off, it's very encouraging and you all can definitely count on me creating new works.  
> I plan on the last chapter being just smut, no plot. So if you have anything specific in mind that you want to see, be sure to let me know.


	6. Chapter 6

“I don’t just work with Captain America. I’ve been friends with him, too. Back before he became Captain America.” James says quietly.

 

Your brain does a quick calculation, then you put two and two together. “You’re from before World War Two?” You can’t keep the disbelief from creeping into your voice, but honestly, after aliens in New York, nothing’s really impossible. 

 

He nods, brushing some of your hair from your face, “It’s a little more complicated than that, but yes. I was born in 1925.”

 

You lean into his touch, your body still aching with need for him. You try very hard to process what he’s saying, and trying to show him that you’re here and you’re listening. Your fingers curl around his body as you cuddle up to him, your breathing in sync with his. As soon as you realize that this man you are sharing your bed with is almost one-fucking-hundred years old, the only thing that pops out of your mouth is, “I guess I have a thing for older men.”

 

James chuckles, then is silent for a minute, trying to figure out a way to say the next part, “So I’m sure you’ve heard the story of Captain America enough to know who Bucky Barnes is.”

 

“I’ve seen the Smithsonian Exhibit,” You pet his bicep, “James Buchanan Barnes, born in-” You voice trails off as realization dawns on you, “No.” You fumble in the dark for the nightstand’s lamp switch, flicking it on. The sudden brightness in his face causes James to squint, but son of a bitch, you see it. His hair is longer and the scruff on his face makes him look more roguishly handsome versus the playboy philanthropist you saw in his photos. How have you not figured it out before? 

 

“Weren’t you a wanted terrorist at some point?” You blurt the first thing on your mind. 

 

He winces, “I was framed. Um, more on that later, but yes, there was a manhunt for me. I was arrested and Steve managed to… sort things out. Can you turn that off?” He gestures to the lamp, and you comply. The two of you are cradled by darkness again. “So there was this mission, it was a rescue mission, actually, and my squadron was the one being rescued.” He words become more and more sure as he continues, “And we found out the location of one of Hydra’s main facilities so Steve and the Howling Commandos decided to go ahead and attack it. I wasn’t going to let Steve go alone, so I tagged along. We hijacked a train that was heading in that direction, but…” You can feel him tense up at the memory, “We were hit. There was an explosion, I don’t remember it very well, but that’s the last thing I remember before… I woke up in a Hydra lab. With this.” He holds up his metal arm, the moonlight gleaming against the edges. 

You gulp, running your fingers down the grooves and joints. How can something you admired suddenly become something horrible? The taste of guilt makes your tongue turn to lead. 

 

“They kept me in chro-stasis when they didn’t need me,” James continued quietly, “Keep my brainwashed brain placate when I wasn’t on mission. The people who used me, Hydra…. They thought it was poetic justice. The friend of Captain America becoming the symbol of everything he stands against.”

 

Your arms are wrapped around his body, head resting on his chest, letting the steady rise and fall of his lungs soothe the burn in your heart at his injustice, “I’m sorry that happened to you.” You finally say, though how else could you possibly respond to his story?

 

He buries his face in your neck. “I carry a lot of baggage with me. I would understand if you didn’t want to continue this relationship.” 

 

You perk your head up and glare at him, though you can barely see his outline in the dark, and also doubt he can see what Cosema calls your ‘murder eyes’, so you put all your refusal in saying “No fucking way,” as vehemently as possible. 

 

“Wh-what?” He stammers, confused at your steadfast stance on the matter.

 

“Look,” You sit up, running you fingers through your hair as you try to verbalize your feelings, “What happened to you was absolutely deplorable. I wish it never happened. But I’m not with you because I want a simple, safe relationship with zero risks. I want a man or woman who is kind to people,” You hold up your hand as you make a list of his qualities, “Who’s responsible, honest, _sweet_ ,” You lean in and give him a kiss on the cheek, “Someone who finds me charming, but also a little intimidating, someone who loves me for all my faults. I saw you with Captain America, I knew that this relationship could get sticky and I accepted those risks when you _first asked me out._ I want you, and you wouldn’t be you without your past.”

 

He’s silent. Then his lips are on yours, tanging with bittersweet tears on his face. His arms are around you, melding his body with yours, and suddenly you can’t tell where your body ends and he begins, the two of you are a tangle of limbs and blankets on the bed. The kiss itself is simple, lips only, but it makes you breathless in the blink of an eye. 

 

“Thank you,” He chokes when the two of you break apart, your lips tingling in the sudden coolness of the night air, “Thank you for giving me a chance.”

 

You press you mouth against his adam’s apple, relishing the feeling of his metal arm curling around your back as you lay beneath him, tracing shivers along your spine. The sparks from his touch rekindles the fire in your core. You kiss his shoulder where the metal plugs into his skin, his fingers making their way back down to your pants, stopping just short of entering your underwear.

 

“How far do you want to go now?” He asks, breath hot on your neck. Any reservations melt away at that question, and you shimmy those pesky pants and underwear off. 

 

“All the way.” You confirm, unbuttoning his jeans and making him spin over so you’re on top, teasing his pants off then straddling his tented boxers. You bend down and kiss his collarbone, his neck, and the edge of his mouth. His hands are squeezing your ass as the two of you kiss again, tongues conquering each other's mouths. You break the kiss to move back down to his chest, biting down and sucking hard just above his nipple. You hear him hiss, his hands moving up to your head to hold you there until he’s satisfied the hickey will appear the next morning. You help him free his erection, his body just as well sculpted down there as he is everywhere else. Muscled thighs, a pronounced ‘v’, and yes, a lovely and thick cock. You take a moment just to look, and your core burns now and you’re panting just at the thought of him sliding into you. 

 

James flips you over gently so you’re laying on your back, You barely register how he’s kneeling in between your legs. His beautiful eyes gleam silver in the moonlight, so much better lit in that position from the moonlight bleeding from your window. He’s slowly crawling back up to your mouth for a kiss. You wrap a single leg over his hip, grinding skin on skin and your pussy is enjoying it  _ greatly _ , juices smearing over his crotch area. 

 

He’s panting with need now, his mouth covering your face with sweet, chaste kisses. His cock is rock hard, the rough rubbing only slightly relieving the heat of your core slightly. His mouth is back on yours and your tongue is sliding between his lips, every movement becoming more and more sure as James figures your desires out. He slips away from your kiss and slides back down your body, trailing kisses and small licks down each breast, stomach, hip bones, then coming to rest at your innermost thigh, where your leg and hip connect, gently closing in on your pussy. His breath is hot on your cunt, a zip of pleasure shooting up your spine just from him being merely a lick away from the skin. You back arches, and his mouth is on you in a chaste kiss and you are nothing more than a simpering mess under his control. 

 

“This is okay?” He asks, his voice dark and almost gone from the control he’s exhibiting just from asking you. 

 

“Oh, gods, James,  _ yes _ .” You reassure him in a shuddering gasp, “Please continue.” and he  _ does _ , and sparks fly through your body as he uses his fingers to keep your pussy lips open for full access, gently massaging the skin with his metal thumb. Then he takes your clit in his mouth and  _ sucks. _ Coils are tensing up your stomach, causing your hips to buck into his mouth. You hiss and moan and whine with pleasure, one hand tangling in his hair and the other gripping the sheets. 

 

“James,” You practically sob as his tongue flicks back and forth, “James, I’m gonna cum.”

 

“Do it, baby.” He says in your pussy, moving his thumb in and out and in and out, one last lick, one last lap from ass to clit and you are seeing stars. Your hips clench and convulse with orgasm but  _ he doesn't stop licking  _ and you feel him drinking your cum dry, his eyes rolling back and shivering at how good you taste.

 

You wait just a moment to catch your breath and recollect your energy, then reach down for his member. It’s hard as a rock, dripping with precum. You run your fingers over the slit, his sharp intake of breath encouraging you to continue. He’s back on top of you, your mouths clashing together and you can taste yourself on his tongue. He grinds into your hand, almost pinning your arms between you. You grunt into his mouth as you try to change your angle to accommodate him, but you give up. You push him off and reach into your nightstand, opening the drawer and digging around for a condom. Finally finding one, you pull it out and unwrap it from the foil. 

 

“What’s that?” James asks.

 

You stifle a giggle, “It’s a condom. You put it… um, on your dick. It catches the sperm. No pregnancy.”

 

“Oh. That makes sense.” The two of you kneel, facing each other. Gently, you reach out, give his cock one last bare skinned pump of the hand, then stretch the rubber over its head, down the shaft to the base, adjusting it slightly to make sure it's firmly on.

 

“If it hurts,” You say, “Tell me, and I’ll get a bigger size tomorrow.”

 

“Will do. Thanks.” He gives you an awkward kiss.

 

“No problem. I’m not really ready for a kid.” You smile back at him, moving yourself so you can easily guide his cock into your cunt as you straddle him. Both of you are sitting up, his legs sprawled out for balance and hands on your ass. 

 

You have to sigh, the pleasure of being filled so thoroughly taking over all your thoughts. Once you manage to get over how nicely he fits inside you, you begin to grind your hips against his, moving backwards and forwards, slowly speeding up your pace. His cock rubs  _ so nicely _ against your pussy walls, you have to focus just keep up with his thrusts, your arms on his shoulders for balance. 

 

Your movements become more and more desperate as your core coils, James’ mouth suddenly latching onto one of your breasts and sucking hard. You moan, and that only encourages him to squeeze your ass, kneading it and moving his hands dangerously close to your asshole. You choke as you feel the coil spring free, bursting through your body just as powerful as before. You feel a burst of warmth from James’ cock and you know that he came as well, his member becoming soft as it slides out of your pussy. He lays you down on the bed and gives you a minute to catch your breath, giving your jawline a quick kiss. You close your eyes and savor the feeling of his weight over you as he hovers just above your body.

 

“Are you alright?” He murmurs.

 

You laugh, an exhausted but joyous reaction, “Am I? That was amazing.” You curl your body around his as he lays beside you, placing his arms around you as you lay your head on his chest. “I think that was the best I’ve had, ever.”

 

He chuckles, “Glad to see I haven't lost my touch in cryo over the years.”

 

“Hm. You must have been quite the player.” You say, nodding in agreement. His heartbeat soothes your ears and body with its steady rhythm, you can already feel yourself falling asleep.

 

“Does that bother you?” He asks.

 

“As long as I’m the only one who gets it from now on, no.” You lay back, then remember, “Be sure to throw the condom away.”

 

You feel a sudden chill as your large space heater leaves you for a moment. He returns, no condom, and a glass of water for you.

 

“You’re so sweet.” You thank him, though too tired to actually drink it. He settles back down, arms around you. Before you drift off to sleep, you remember whispering, “I’m glad I met you.”

 

His flesh fingers reach up and trace the shape of your face, then speaks, his voice full of emotions that your sleepy brain can barely place, “I’m so glad to have met you, too.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! It's been a wild ride. Thank you all for the support and comments you gave that encouraged me to continue!
> 
> This is techniqually the last chapter of the story, but don't worry, my thirsty friends! The epilogue is going to be just smut.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pure smut, as promised.

“Hey, you.” You step into his room. This would be the second time you’ve visited since James first introduced you to the surrounding Avengers (holy shit, you almost screamed when the  _ Black Widow _ shook your hand). Tony Fucking Stark made you a keycard and gave you access for when you wanted a ‘sleepover’ with your boyfriend. 

 

Your boyfriend. Your boyfriend, the sexy James Barnes. You can barely say that without bursting into laughter because it is just so, so hard to believe. The fact that you and James are officially a thing isn’t surprising, it’s that he’s Captain Fucking America’s BFF and therefore a Very Important Person. But you can barely see him as anything else than those soulful eyes gazing at the stars, those strong hands stroking your hair when you wake up in his arms, and that smile he gives you when he’s excited to do something new. 

 

And you are going to take absolute advantage of the benefits of being with a deliciously muscled soldier.

 

He perks up the second you step through the door, and good gods is that look sexy. One corner of his lips is quirked up is a half smile, his eyes raking over your body in a way that does most certainly not happen between friends. “You look beautiful today.” He says, those words coiling straight between your thighs. His voice is husky, like whiskey and gunsmoke, unmistakably masculine and wonderfully yours. 

 

“And you look great, too.” Which is an understatement as he always looks ruggedly handsome. You shut the door and lock it behind you. “Good enough to eat, I might say.” You throw your purse down and toss your jacket to some corner of the room. 

 

“Oh no, that sounds like some pretty dangerous water you’re treading.” He says in a mock-scared voice. He moves so he’s sitting on the edge of his bed, and his eyes, oh, those eyes. You get wet just looking at them. 

 

“But you already know I’m one for danger.” You straddle him, the pesky clothes keeping much friction from happening in your crotch. Your mouth is on his, tentative, then harder and harder as you can barely control yourself around him. You want to play with your food, dammit, not this crazy heat fucking that the two of you have been doing. Trying your best to take control of the situation, you break the kiss and gently start to rub yourself back and forth, back and forth on his jeans. 

 

His erection is swift, pressing hard against your pussy and making you groan because  _ fuck, _ just the memory of him inside you almost makes you cum. Your breathing picks up, and you lean down for another kiss. 

 

“I want you.” You hiss into his mouth, “Stop being so damn sexy.” 

 

James’ smile is almost lazy, but you can see him straining against the heavy desire that dances in his eyes, “You’re always asking for the impossible.” His hands snake up onto your chest, fondling your breasts.

 

“Hm, sounds like a personal problem to me.” You slip your tongue into his open mouth. The kisses turn rushed and sloppy as your patience wears thin and thinner. Your mind frizzes when he pulls from your mouth and starts gently nibbling on your earlobe. You moan as his fingers run down and start making slow, infuriating circles around your clothed pussy. 

 

“You.” You snarl with frustration as he does that thing with his teeth, gently marking the side of your neck, just where your shoulder meets. 

 

“Me?” He’s both dazed and wild, heavy lidded from love, panting with need and lust. 

 

“I want to make you scream.” You decide, tracing your index finger down from his chest to lower regions, “I want to make you suffer and beg today. And if you want me to, baby, I can make it last for hours.” You want to show him how truly infuriatingly you can be. 

 

He moans at the ghost of strokes you makes along his pants, “I don’t think I can last that long.” 

 

You smile cruelly, “We’ll see.” You slip from his lap, in between his legs. His breathing hitches at the idea of what you’re about to do. Your mouth hovers around his covered erection, just breathing in the scent of his aftershave. His smell is safety and home. It’s summer showers in the country and motor oil. You brush your mouth against his erection.

 

Gently, encouraged by his breathing and whimpers, you unbuckle his belt and slip his jeans off. His cock is weeping inside his boxers, you can see a damp spot of precum on the peak of the tent. Your mouth waters. You don’t have the patience to gently tease his boxers down as well, so you just move the unwanted fabric out of the way to free his cock and yes, it is just as wide and beautiful as you remember it. You lean forward and suck the spot between his base and balls. 

 

If you weren’t wet before, you are now. A torrent of arousal pours from between your legs at his moan, so raw, so desperate.  He doesn’t move his hands or force you onto him further, letting you go at your own pace and torture him on your time. You remove your mouth from the base and lick at the top, gently taking the tip and lick, pack and forth and letting your tongue savor that slit at the top. 

 

James bucks his hips and gasps, and you know you’ve found his sweet spot. You latch your mouth onto it and suck, letting him writhe and moan at your command, before pulling away. 

 

“Oh I’m sorry, were you enjoying that?” You let your smaller sadistic side revel in how you’re capable of bringing intense pleasure to this beautiful man. You open your mouth and let his cock slide down your throat. You do your best not to gag as you pull your head back and then move back down. His groans of pleasure fuel you, giving you the energy to bob your head a few more times before you need a break to breath. 

 

“Do you like that?” You decide to infuriatingly ask, half wanting to hear his real answer and half wanting to antagonize him.

 

“Yes _ , yes. _ ” He hisses, running his fingers through your hair, keeping any stray strands from interfering, “You make me feel so good.”

 

Your cunt throbs at his declaration, and you continue to work on his erection. You lick your way from base to tip, enjoying his whimpers and murmurs of approval. You take his balls into your mouth and suck them, feeling them fill with his cum, waiting for release. And with one approving nod from you, release he does. You catch some of his cum in your mouth, letting the rest drip and run down his legs and boxers. You push him back onto the bed and climb over his body, leaning down and giving him an open mouthed kiss, your tongue still salty from his semen. 

 

His tongue eagerly slips into your mouth, his fingers ready to return the favor. “I like this side of you,” He murmurs, then lets his tongue brush against yours again. 

 

You love it when he tells you what he likes. You’re fingers reach and and start stroking him again, feeling his hardness return with the purpose of pleasuring you. He flips you over so now he’s the one in charge, helping you pull off your shirt. After fumbling around with your bra (you had to help him with that one, modern bras can be confusing), he leans down and starts sucking on one of your breasts. Your nipples have been hard as pebbles since the second you walked into the room, but now you’re sure they could cut glass. 

 

His teeth rubs against it, the perfect mix of pleasure balancing on pain, his soft whimpers the only thing keeping you grounded in reality. His metal hand moves past the bands of your jeans and begins those wonderfully pleasurable circles around your clit. You let out a sigh of release, that first stroke absorbing a tension you didn’t know you had. You try to move close to his hand to catch more friction, but judging by the smirk on his lips, he wasn’t going to let you get away that easily. His strokes become more slow, infuriatingly slow, and you know you’re going to pay for all your games from before.

 

“James!” You whine, hoping he’ll see your big, desperate eyes and have mercy. But it looks like your wiles will have no effect today. He takes off his shirt and tosses it aside, taking off his cum covered boxers, and then taking off your jeans for you. You shimmy, trying to feel more friction to pleasure yourself, but nothing compares to what James Buchanan Barnes can do to you. He gets on all fours and places your knees on his shoulders, bending over and giving your still clothed cunt a good lick. Oh, you see where he’s going with this, naughty, naughty boy.

 

He eats you out with your underwear still on, using his teeth and nose to give you the needed movement to feel that building coil of need and release in your stomach.

 

“James, please.” Even if you can pull the role of dominant while you’re pleasuring him, you turn into a mewling pile of need the second he presses his tongue up against your cunt.

 

“Please what?” Oh, you will get him for this.

 

You manage to wiggle off your underwear, “Oh, gods, James, please..”

 

“Well, when you ask me so politely like that.” His smile is so beautiful yet horribly smug at the same time. The two of you enjoy making each other beg, but are just as willing to be the one begging when at the receiving end of pleasure. He buries his mouth between your legs and suckles your clit. Sparks explode in your vision and you can’t breathe, can’t breathe. You close your eyes and throw your head back, unable to keep quiet with the obscene actions happening to your nether regions. 

 

“James!” You moan, “Oh, James, more, please.” 

 

He’s so happy to oblige. His tongue pushes into you, flicking it up and down. You grind yourself onto his face, the heat inside your stomach growing. Oh,  _ oh _ , you can feel your orgasm balancing on the edge of bliss, just a little more…

 

James moves his metal thumb inside your cunt and _oh gods, oh gods,_ it vibrates. You keen towards him and cry out, encouraging him further. He takes his thumb and places it onto your clit, the shock from cold nearly causing you to scream. He makes that movement he knows you like, that infinity shape over your nub. You can barely see, barely breath, sparks fly in your vision as your body rocks and pulses with an orgasm. But he doesn’t stop, oh no, he keeps going, making you buck towards him and cry for mercy until he knows your orgasm is over. 

 

He moves up and kisses your exhausted lips, murmuring, “Ready for round two or done?”

 

You grin at him, “Sergeant Barnes, you underestimate my stamina.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allow me to apologize for the extended amount of time it took for me to publish this. A big thank you to everyone who wrote me encouraging comments, you all gave me the courage *and motivation* to continue writing not only this story, but others. I can't believe I finished writing my first fan fiction, and it's published, and people not only read it, but like it!
> 
> So once again: Thank you for riding alongside me for this. It's been crazy, it's been fabulous, and it's been bittersweet. Hope to see ya'll in my other works.


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